Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (9 page)

16

N
ightingale ordered another Corona, his third, and wondered whether it was worth going outside the wine bar for a cigarette but decided that on balance he’d prefer to continue to watch a recording of a Manchester United–Liverpool match on a big LCD TV with the sound turned down. Nightingale’s father, his real father, the man who had brought him up, had been a big United fan and had taken him to hundreds of games over the years. Bill Nightingale had been a season-ticket holder for as long as he could remember and Jack’s yearly birthday present from the age often had been his own season ticket. It was father-and-son time, and going to the games had marked some of the happiest times of his childhood. His father had helped him collect autographs of the first-team players, standing with him in all weathers outside the players’ entrance, passing the time by testing each other on the names of all the squads going back to the early nineteen fifties. Nightingale had gone once or twice after his parents had died, but it had never felt the same and he hadn’t renewed his ticket. ‘I knew I’d find you here,’ said a voice at his shoulder. It was Jenny.

‘I wasn’t exactly hiding, and it’s the closest bar to the office,’ he said. He checked his watch. It was just before eight o’clock. ‘Why aren’t you home?’

She held up the Waitrose carrier-bag. ‘I was in the office, reading the Gosling diary,’ she said. ‘I got caught up in it.’ She put the bag down on the bar and ordered a glass of white wine from the barman. ‘Can we sit at a table?’ she asked Nightingale. ‘I always feel like a lush standing at the bar.’

‘I feel like a lush too, but where am I going to find one at this time of night?’ said Nightingale. He grinned and indicated an empty table. ‘You grab yourself a seat and I’ll get your drink.’

Jenny threaded her way through the tables and sat down. She put the bag in front of her and helped herself to a breadstick. Nightingale took her wine and his bottle of Corona to the table and sat opposite her.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You’ve been quiet, that’s all.’

‘I’ve been working.’

‘How many beers have you had?’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘What are you, the alcohol police?’

‘You’re not driving, are you?’

Nightingale raised his glass. ‘No, Jenny, I’m not driving.’

‘And you’re sure you’re okay?’

He sipped some beer. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Fine and dandy.’ He nodded at the Waitrose bag. ‘Have you managed to make sense of that?’

Four women in power suits burst into laughter at the table next to them. They were all in their early thirties, wearing too much makeup and jewellery, and weighing each other up with humourless eyes. Nightingale had them pegged as office colleagues, not friends. He made eye contact with one and she sneered at him dismissively. Nightingale smiled to himself, unfazed by her contempt.

‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Jenny.

‘I’m just happy that you’re the way you are and not like those harpies over there.’

‘Harpies?’

‘Those hard-faced bitches in their power suits, drinking bubbly and baring their fangs.’

‘That sounds a tad misogynistic,’ said Jenny.

‘I love women,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s so not true,’ said Jenny. ‘You like some women, you tolerate the rest.’

‘I open doors for them, I give up my seat on buses.’

‘On behalf of womankind, thank you so very much.’ She sipped her wine. The women at the other table laughed again and one shouted at a waiter to bring another bottle of champagne. ‘Having said that, I do see what you mean,’ she said. She put down her glass and took the book out of the carrier-bag. ‘So, here’s the scoop. This wasn’t written by Ainsley Gosling. He would have been reading it.’

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘So, who did write it?’

‘So far as I can tell it’s the diary of somebody called Sebastian Mitchell. The first entry is in 1946. The most recent was twelve years ago. There are notes in the margin that aren’t in mirror Latin so I’m guessing Gosling wrote them.’ She put it on the table. ‘I’ve only read bits – it’ll take for ever to read the whole thing. My Latin’s rusty and it’s a pain having to read it in the mirror. But I can tell you that this guy Mitchell was some sort of Satanist. You’ve heard of Aleister Crowley, right?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘He was a big-time Satanist. Mitchell studied under him. Crowley died in 1947, the year after Mitchell started writing his diary, but while Crowley enjoyed his infamy, Mitchell preferred to hide his light under a bushel and this was never meant for publication.’

‘It says all that in the diary?’

‘It mentions Crowley, yes, but the diary isn’t about him. It’s about how Mitchell was trying to summon devils. A sort of “how to” book, detailing what he did, the pitfalls and perils, what worked and what didn’t.’

‘This keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?’

‘Just because it’s written down it doesn’t mean it’s true. I kept a diary until I was fifteen, full of adolescent ramblings.’

‘Now, that I’d like to read,’ said Nightingale. ‘Gosling was using this book. It was open on his desk – it might well have been the last thing he read. I need to know what he was thinking about before he killed himself.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Is there stuff in there about selling souls?’

‘Jack, you know that’s nonsense.’

‘I need to know what he believed,’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s nonsense, what matters is what he believed. Is there stuff in there about selling the souls of children?’

‘It’s a handwritten diary, Jack. Mitchell could have been as crazy as . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished and reached for her glass.

‘As my genetic father?’

Jenny avoided his eyes. ‘I’m not saying he was crazy. But he did kill himself – there’s no getting away from that.’

‘What does it say about selling souls, Jenny?’

Jenny sighed. ‘You have to summon a devil,’ she said. ‘Not
the
devil, but one of his minions. In the book, Mitchell describes the different sorts of devils and what they do. So, if you want to sell a soul you have to call up one of his minions.’

‘How do you know which devil to summon?’

‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’

‘Just tell me what the book says.’

Jenny nodded slowly. ‘Okay. According to Mitchell, there are sixty-six princes under the devil, each commanding 6,666 legions. And each legion is made up of 6,666 devils.’

Nightingale frowned as he struggled to do the calculation in his head. ‘There are three billion devils in hell?’

‘It’s a big place,’ said Jenny. ‘Look, Jack, Mitchell was delusional – the book’s proof of that. No one in their right mind believes in a hell full of devils.’

Nightingale drained his beer and waved at a waitress for another bottle. ‘Here’s the thing, Jenny. The way I see it, there are two possibilities. One, he sold my soul to a devil, and on my thirty-third birthday my life as I know it will be over.’

‘Which is nonsense.’

The waitress arrived with his next Corona. Nightingale took the bottle and raised it to Jenny. ‘Which is nonsense,’ he agreed. ‘Two, he was as mad as a hatter. There was something wrong with him, paranoid schizophrenia, early Alzheimer’s, bipolar, I don’t know.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘A few bricks short of a wall.’

‘You’re still worrying about the heredity thing?’

‘And you think I shouldn’t be?’

‘I think it’s obvious he was having problems,’ said Jenny. ‘That doesn’t mean you will.’

‘Mental problems, Jenny. And mental problems can be hereditary. My father was mad so I might be headed that way too.’ He pointed at the book in front of her. ‘Anyone who wrote that must be crazy, and anyone who believed in it must have been even crazier. My dad blew his head off with a shotgun. Maybe . . .’ His voice tailed off.

‘What, Jack? What is it?’

‘I was a negotiator – you know that. Everyone thinks that negotiators are like they are on TV, running around talking to hostage-takers, getting villains out of banks and persuading them to hand over their guns before anyone gets hurt. But it’s not like that. Most of the time it’s domestics that have got out of hand or it’s sad buggers wanting to kill themselves – or to be talked out of killing themselves.’ He took a long pull on his beer. ‘Christ, I want a cigarette.’

‘That’s the beauty of the legislation,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re only allowed one pleasure at a time.’

‘Sometimes they just want someone to talk to,’ Nightingale went on. ‘There was one woman out in Tower Hamlets – every time she had a fight with her husband she’d pick up a knife, sit in her garden and threaten to cut herself. A negotiating team would go out, and after an hour or two and a few cigarettes she’d give us the knife and start crying and saying she loved her husband even though he belted her every time he had a few drinks inside him.’

‘She wasn’t really suicidal?’

‘She just wanted someone to talk to, and by threatening to harm herself, she got it. I saw her three times over the years. Knew what brand of fags to take her and what buttons to press when I got there. Emma, her name was. She’s probably still at it.’ He sipped his beer, then took another long pull. ‘It wasn’t hard to empathise with her. She was trapped in a life she hated, with a man who showed emotion through violence, and she’d had half a dozen miscarriages that were probably because of the drink, the drugs and the smoking. You could understand what was upsetting her. And once you understand you can negotiate. You can tell them what they want to hear.’

‘And she wanted someone to care?’

‘That was all she wanted. Someone to listen to her, to prove that she mattered, that her life amounted to something.’

‘And did you really care or were you faking it?’

‘I cared – of course I cared. She was a human being in pain. How could I not care?’ He finished his Corona and signalled to the waitress again. ‘But the ones who really want to kill themselves, they’re a different ball game. You could look into their eyes and you’d know, just know, that something wasn’t right. You’d know without a shadow of a doubt that they were going to do it, and that the only reason you were there was because they wanted an audience.’

‘Why would they want an audience?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Who knows? There’s no logic to what a crazy person does. That’s what crazy is.’

‘Crazy is as crazy does?’ said Jenny. ‘Very Forrest Gump.’

‘Yeah, life is a box of chocolates,’ said Nightingale. ‘In my father’s case, Black Magic.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Jenny. ‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

The waitress brought over Nightingale’s beer. Jenny’s wine glass was still half full.

‘Some people want to kill themselves and do it in private,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s easy enough – you swallow a bottle of sleeping tablets, hang yourself or jump off a very tall building when no one’s looking. But sometimes they want a reaction so they’ll throw themselves in front of a train or stand on a ledge and wait for a crowd to gather. They’re the really sick ones.’

‘You’ve seen a lot of people commit suicide?’

Nightingale grimaced. ‘Not too many, but enough,’ he said. ‘The one thing they had in common was the look in their eyes. Once you’ve seen it, you never forget it. And I can see it in Gosling’s eyes when I look at that DVD – I can see it, Jenny.’

‘Jack . . .’

Nightingale stood up. ‘Jack, are you okay?’

‘I need some fresh air.’

‘You mean you need a cigarette, right?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ve got to walk for a while, clear my head.’

‘Do you want company?’

‘Thanks, but I’d rather be on my own for a bit. Can you keep a hold of that diary for me, see if you can turn up anything else I should know?’

‘You’re not going to drive, are you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’ve been drinking, Jack.’

‘I know I’ve been drinking. And I’m not going to drive. I just need some air.’

17

N
ightingale lit a cigarette as he walked down the street. He passed a dozen or so shops, three of which had gone out of business while the rest were trying desperately to drum up trade by offering sales of up to ninety per cent off and free credit. The only ones that seemed to be thriving were the charity outlets offering second-hand clothes, household goods and toys. A cold wind blew at his back and he raised the collar of his raincoat.

‘Hey, Mister, got a cigarette?’

A girl was sitting in the doorway of an Oxfam shop, a sleeping-bag wrapped around her legs. She was dressed in Goth black, with thick mascara and black eye-shadow. Her dyed black hair was unkempt and there were chunky silver rings on all of her fingers. A black-and-white Border collie lay on the ground next to her. She mimed smoking just in case he’d missed the question.

Nightingale held up his burning cigarette. ‘You know these things’ll give you cancer?’ he said.

‘Everybody dies,’ said the girl. She can’t be more than twenty-five, thought Nightingale. ‘Sooner or later.’

‘But some sooner than others.’ Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro and offered her one. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

She helped herself and smiled up at him. ‘Got a light?’

Nightingale flicked a flame. She cupped it with her left hand as she inhaled. One of her rings was a strange cross, curved into a loop at the top.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the girl, her hand touching his.

Nightingale jerked it away. The dog flinched, then looked at Nightingale mournfully, his tail twitching from side to side. ‘What did you say?’

‘It opens the gates of hell,’ she said. ‘The ring. It’s an ankh. The symbol of eternal life. Do you want to buy it? You can give it to your girlfriend.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Boyfriend, then.’

‘I’m not gay.’

‘Just lonely?’

Nightingale straightened and took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I’m not so lonely that I need a dog for company,’ he said.

The girl stroked the collie. ‘He’s not company, he’s protection,’ she said.

‘He doesn’t look that fierce,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’d be surprised,’ she said. ‘Things aren’t always the way they seem. Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know, or won’t tell?’

Nightingale flicked ash on the pavement. ‘I’ve a lot on my mind,’ he said.

‘You can think too much, you know,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to go with the flow.
Que sera, sera
. Whatever will be, will be.’

Nightingale took out his wallet. ‘You sleep rough?’ he asked.

‘I don’t sleep much, really,’ she said. Nightingale handed her a twenty-pound note, but she refused it. ‘I’m not begging,’ she said.

‘Buy the dog something. A bone. Whatever.’

The collie’s tail twitched again as if he understood what Nightingale was saying. ‘He’s not begging, either.’ The girl flashed him a grin and evidently changed her mind. She grabbed the note. ‘But there’s no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, is there?’ It disappeared into her leather jacket.

‘I never understood that saying,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s about checking teeth, to see if the horse you’ve been given is a good one or not. It’d be like me checking that the money you’ve just given me isn’t fake. That’d be looking a gift horse in the mouth.’ She stroked the dog as she talked. Her fingernails were painted black – they were long and pointed, almost talons. She saw him looking at them and held up her right hand. ‘You like?’

‘They’re distinctive.’

She curled her fingertips and admired them. ‘Do you want me to scratch you?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That’s what guys say when they see my nails. They wonder what it would be like to have their backs scratched with them. Is that what you were thinking?’

It was exactly what Nightingale had been thinking, but he shook his head.

‘Why is it, do you think, that guys really want girls to hurt them?’

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale.

‘It is, believe me,’ said the girl. She was stroking the dog again. ‘I think guys like to be treated like dogs. You stroke them, feed them and exercise them, but you have to punish them every now and again to show them who’s boss.’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘Well, good luck with philosophy,’ he said, and walked on.

‘You take care,’ she called after him.

‘You too,’ said Nightingale. He smoked as he walked, deep in thought. That was twice now that he’d heard someone tell him he was going to hell. The constable at Gosling Manor, and now the girl with the dog. Was he imagining it? It was what Simon Underwood had screamed in the dream, just before he went through the window. But that had been a dream, or a nightmare, and now he was wide awake, albeit a bit drunk. ‘Maybe I’m just going crazy,’ he muttered to himself.

‘We’re all crazy,’ said a gruff voice.

Nightingale jumped. A homeless man was sitting in the doorway of a hardware shop, nursing a bottle of cider. He was in his sixties with long grey hair, a straggly beard dotted with crumbs, and wads of newspaper tied around his legs with string.

‘The whole world’s gone crazy,’ he said, waving the bottle at Nightingale. ‘God’s abandoned us and the Lord Jesus doesn’t care any more. They’re letting us wallow in our sins until the end of days.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Nightingale. He took out his wallet, gave the man ten pounds and carried on down the road.